Self Defence
by mojor
Summary: Just an excuse to get Beckett sweaty. Oneshot. Calling it romance seems like a stretch. It's completely gratuitous Plot? What Plot!


**I'm just playing around with something. I'm not sure what it is – some kind of stream-of-conscious thing that seemed like it needed messing with. Don't freak out if it's not a 'proper' way to write. I'm just amusing myself. And this whole story is essentially pointless anyway except for giving me a chance to try something different.**

**A couple of swear words, which, really, compared to the somewhat graphic nature of this fic are probably not that big a deal.**

**Inspired by the thought that I really needed to get to the gym, and then a fleeting memory from when I had a regular sparring partner with whom there was an amazing spark- which just made for some really fun (and rather intense) sparring sessions ;) ... and where that led us...**

**Just in case it's bothering you- I can spell, I'm just not American.**

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><p><span>Self Defence<span>

He jumps at the crash of the coffee cup on the table and immediately takes a step closer to her, but slowly with his hand held out, palm first; he doesn't want to spook her anymore than she already is. "What's really wrong? Why are you angry?"

Her eyes flash dangerously at him, and the handle of the mug comes away in her hand. She fights the urge to throw the stupid mug across the room and instead rounds on her partner, "You could have been killed today, Castle!"

"But I wasn't." He uses his voice to try to calm her.

"I can't believe you'd just let them ..." she trails off, remembering the way he was held between the men, the gun at his head; and the way he just stood there – passive.

"You had me covered. Ryan was right behind you. I thought I did exactly what you'd want? I held still so you had a shot." He really had pressed down every instinct to fight back and just held there, trusting in his partner. It was exactly what she'd always wanted him to do; not get involved. He can't understand where her anger comes from now.

"What if we hadn't been there! What if..." She's not able to find the words to explain her fears without making them sound like they _are_ fears. They aren't. It's just tactics and practicalities.

"You think I can't defend myself? You think that I wouldn't if I had to? Come on, Beckett, you know I can take care of myself when it's needed."

"Really?"

"What do you mean, 'really'?" He is hurt by that, that she could doubt him and his willingness to defend himself – defend her – if it came to that. Hadn't he already proven that to her?

He's never claimed to be a macho man's man. Isn't sure he'd even want to be given the choice. But he's never backed away from having her back.

She stands there, her body still vibrating with barely repressed anger and she just wants to smack that look of concern and confusion off his face. Or kiss it off. The memory is still too fresh; her terror at having him pressed against the wall, the two men yelling for her to get back. With the bodies of their other victims on the floor at his feet they clearly had nothing to lose. Unlike her.

"You need sparing practice," she says, the thought barely passing through her conscious brain before it escapes from her lips.

"What?"

"You need to learn to defend yourself."

"I've done basic self defence and sparring." He steps closer to her, his hand brushing the edge of her shirt, "Beckett, come on, I'm a civilian. We don't have a lot of lee-way with me bringing it to the bad-guys here. Gates would have me out the door in a heartbeat; you know that! Hell, Beckett, you remind me yourself half the time that I need to step back." Although now he says it he realises she hasn't had to remind him for a while. Either he's getting better at following her lead or she's getting better at accepting his help.

"No," she's not even listening to him, she's made up her mind, "I'll find Esposito. Get him to run some drills with you after we knock off."

"Esposito? Really? You're going to start me with Espo?" he growls, and then remembers something else, "Besides, he's gonna be out of here as soon as the bell rings. Lanie has him pacing already over their dinner tonight."

"I'm not kidding, Castle. I'll ask Ryan. Hell, I'll do it myself if I have to but you need to do this."

He's suddenly not fighting the idea so much. True, he really doesn't want to have to bounce around on a mat and pretend to box at some stupid swinging bag and – ergh – he's just remembered leg sweeps! He got so sick of leg sweeps the last time he ran rounds with the personal trainer he hired. But if Beckett is going to be there, bouncing around with him, he can see some appeal in that.

It's like she reads his mind, senses his moment of weakness, "Done. After work. Do you have sweats here?"

"Why would I have sweats here? I had no intention of sweating!"

"I'll find you some."

"No. If I have to do this I'm certainly not doing it in someone else's gym gear," he shudders at the idea. "I'll sort something out."

"Okay." She feels better when she leaves the break room.

He just watches her go; he's not sure if he's looking forward to the afternoon or not.

###

She's already waiting for him in the gym when he arrives; wearing tights and a tank top, her hair tied back in a pony tail. She's warming up. He thinks this is possibly the best idea she's ever had, and then he remembers that he's supposed to join in, warm up, and jump around on his feet like a butterfly or a bee or _something_. He'd much rather just watch her.

Too late; she's seen him. The look of determination on her face momentarily breaks into a smile.

"Hey, you ready?" she asks. She tries not to appreciate too much the shirt he's wearing; but honestly, she's secure enough in herself to be able to admit he really is ruggedly handsome and he really does have good taste in clothing. If he's just gone out and purchased the outfit it was money well spent.

He just nods, "Where do you want to start?" What he means is 'let's get this over with.'

"You should warm up; do some bag work, some wind sprints, stretch out a little first."

"I took the stairs," he says instead.

"Castle, I'm serious about this. We're going to spar. We're not having some kind of book club meeting here. Warm up."

He can't think of too many things more embarrassing than having to puff around the gym with her watching him, and then he thinks this is possibly the worse idea she's ever had. Suddenly she's pushing him, her hand at his back, and her jibes in his ear, and they're doing wide laps around the equipment area.

She's actually enjoying herself. She likes to run, likes to move; she enjoys physical activity. She's never shared that with him before. Plus his smart remarks and aggravated quips are making her smile.

They start on the wind sprints; he finally stops talking. She is surprised to see him not that far behind her in their times.

He can't believe he's still putting up with it fifteen minutes later. He forces himself to stop thinking about who's holding the bag, and forget about the fact that he really hates this, and just let muscle memory take over. He spent enough time boxing, and at least learning to approximate the stricter martial arts moves, while researching his books that his technique is passable.

She leans her weight into the bag and takes each thud with a grunt and an exhalation of air. She watches the flex of muscle with each jab, cross, jab, hook combo; his chin is low, shoulder up to protect his jaw, elbows in, his arms turn nicely, fist in position when he makes contact with the bag. It's nice to watch. She can't help but look for weaknesses in his defence at the same time.

"You're warm," she finally says.

He can't help but agree; he passed warm a while back. He goes in search of water. Wipes away his sweat with a towel. Takes slow breaths and hopes he doesn't pass out.

She waits for him on the mat. He resigns himself to his fate and stands in front of her.

"You want to try some light boxing, just some back and forth, attack and parry?"

"What's the other option?"

She laughs at his lack of enthusiasm, "This is fun, Castle, lighten up. You said you'd done all this, you should be keen to just prove me wrong."

"I shouldn't need to prove you wrong."

"True. I'm sorry," and she was. She hadn't meant to doubt his capabilities, and she didn't, not really. But sometimes you had to use every weapon in your arsenal. "It doesn't hurt to refresh the skills, though."

"Fine. So, attack and parry, or..."

"Self defence; basic take downs."

Take downs sounded like fun in his imaginary fantasy world where he'd be the one doing the taking down. Not so much in the musty reality of the gym where he suspected he'd be on his arse again and again.

"Boxing," he said with a groan.

"Okay. You have a mouth guard?"

He looks at her like she's from another planet.

"Fine, but I'm wearing mine. What about other forms of protection," she flicks a glance to his crotch.

"Excuse me, Detective! Eyes up." They share a smirk. "I have sparring gloves and that's it. You'll just have to keep it above the belt."

"I can do that."

They don their sparring gear and face each other on the mat.

"We'll take it slow, jab, block, counter," she says around her mouthguard.

He nods, already moving about to find his balance, keeping his feet light, trying to remember the drill.

She starts in on him then; slowly, testing him out. Going easy on him, really. He blocks, and returns with a soft jab. They trade back and forth a few times until she's confident he's okay. He doesn't flinch at the impact on his glove and she likes that. She steps it up.

She can move quickly. She's light on her feet and faster than either of the trainers he's worked with before. The comparatively gentle taps to the side of his head and his shoulders and solar plexus still sting though. He's never sparred with a woman. It makes him pull his punches even though he knows she's tough, knows she can take a hit. Still, it's Kate, and he's not going to hit her.

"Come on, Castle," she encourages him. He's actually not bad; a little too restrained. He holds back more than he should – pulls his punches – but she thinks he might actually have been right; he can look after himself. She's curious to see how well.

He grits his teeth at the force of the blow she's managed to his kidneys. Clearly she's done taking it easy on him. A flurry of jab, jab, upper cut, hook sees his eyes flash black and white, and he wants to punch back. He dances away instead and tries to catch his breath.

"Come on, come at me!" It feels like she's taunting him; daring him.

"Beckett." A litany of complaints in the two syllables of her name.

"Stop holding back, Castle. I'm your opponent. Stop shying away."

He steps back into their imaginary ring and his opening jab is soft, just to start them off. She moves in close straight away with two jabs to his belly. He punches at her shoulder – a solid punch – and it pushes her back. He follows it up with something that would be dangerous if he put his weight behind it. She blocks it easily, weaves under and comes up fighting.

She's angry now, "I've fought better than you, Castle, come at me!"

He knows she has. Knows that even if he came at her as fast as he could she'd still be able to avoid his blows; she's got skill and speed on her side.

So he loosens up a little. He throws a few decent punches and stops being so afraid of hurting her. He's glad he does.

She smiles at him; a bright green streak of mouthguard revealing her pleasure.

After a solid blow glances off the side of her head she dances back, smiles, mumbles, "nice," at him and keeps going. He knows it must have hurt. He felt the impact in his shoulder.

He doesn't have long to bask in his glory; her fist crashes into his nose. It might not have been a big hit but holy Christ it hurts. His eyes swim a little. He's not crying. It's just a reflex. He ignores it and tries to ignore her smug grin.

"So, that's how it is," he pants at her. Is he that out of breath?

They circle some more; back and forth, until they find a rhythm. They are looking now to draw the other out; find a weakness, take one good shot.

He's actually starting to enjoy the challenge. He's not feeling quite as awkward as he expected. It probably has a lot to do with his partner; she gives him confidence even when she's raining blows on ribs and his gloves where they shield his face.

She almost laughs out loud when she finally feels him start to move; when his shoulders relax and he releases some of the power he'd kept from her. The hits to her shoulders hurt. She lets her body take them anyway. She ducks under the blows he's aiming to her head; he's got muscle and height on her but he's slower. He has, so far, avoided her stomach and ribs altogether. She wants to tell him he doesn't have to but the truth is any impact to her ribs still hurts despite the months of healing.

His forehead is beaded with sweat. His biceps glisten. She can't help but notice. An eternity of fantasies plays out in the instant between muscle flex and white hot pain.

A flash of light, a moment of blackness, and then her entire head is exploding.

"Fuck! Kate?" he's leaning over her with his face contorted in fear. He's tugging at gloves that are making it impossible to touch her face.

"Beckett? Can you hear me?" he finally gets them off and his hands are surprisingly gentle as they cradle her head, and sweep back her hair. His fingers run the length of her face; they are hot against her skin.

She's realises she's lying on the mat; feels a moment of anger, and then embarrassment, and then she's just hurting again. Her face is throbbing with the beat of her heart, and her heart is beating fast.

She tries to spit her mouthguard out, but she can't make her jaw work. He helps. Digging in her mouth and tugging at her teeth. She tastes the sweat from his hands and it stings at a cut on her lip.

"Oh, god, Kate, I am so sorry. Are you okay?" he's whispering to her, his breath is coming fast and hard.

She still hasn't managed to answer, although she's trying to; trying to tell him that she's fine. Just took a hit. She's had worse.

She flexes her face, opens her jaw, scrunches her nose, and squeezes her eyes shut. It hurts like a bitch but everything still works.

She licks her lips and croaks out something that might have been, "Castle."

He drops his face to hers then, and rests his lips on her pounding flesh. It's not a big deal; just his lips to her cheek and her forehead and the side of her mouth. He's just punched her, after all. A gentle scattering of might-be-kisses is hardly remarkable.

It soothes her anyway, but does nothing to slow the beat of her heart. Her face throbs with each rush of blood and she wants to tell him to stop. Her arm finds his back and that seems to work.

He's looking at her, still dazed. "Can you talk? Do you remember where you are?"

She wants to laugh. Of course she remembers; she didn't black out. It wasn't that good of a punch. She tells him that, "You didn't get me that good, Castle."

He laughs his relief, "Just lay still, I'm gonna call for Lanie or someone."

"No, don't. Just help me up."

"Beckett," he pleads. _She _can't see the bruise; it's purple already, swelling up around her eye, a puckered nick across her cheek where the knuckles of his pointer and index finger met bone. There's another small cut to her lip; another knuckle? Or the impact of her own teeth? It doesn't matter. It looks bad.

The fact that it was him that did it makes his stomach turn over.

"I need to get some ice on it." She's right. So he helps her up. Supports her over to a chair even though she's surprisingly steady on her feet and probably doesn't need his help.

"I'll just get a washcloth and some water from the changerooms," she says, and her voice is slower, thicker than normal.

"I'll help."

"I'm going into the ladies bathroom, Castle."

"There's no one else here," he says it like she's crazy. He's right. It's just them. She would have liked a chance to poke and prod at her face without an audience.

He's at her side the whole way; running the cloth under the water, folding it and passing it over. She holds it there for a while and then turns to look in the mirror.

She meets his gaze first, and holds the cool cloth over her face. He looks like someone ran over his puppy.

"It's fine, Castle. It was a good match. I actually enjoyed it," she's about to smile, but it turns into a wince instead. "We should do it again some time."

He laughs at her then, he can't help it. "Are you out of your mind?"

"No, it _was _good," and she means it, "I underestimated you. I shouldn't have done that. We're not too bad together; an even match in a way, despite having different strengths."

"I never in the world expected to actually connect. I must have aimed wrong. You're way too fast for me."

"No, your aim was fine. It was damn good feint and cross. I lost focus."

"What do you mean you lost focus? I lost control."

"You _need_ to lose a bit of control. You need to let your body move and react and not think. That's the point."

"I think the point is not to get hurt."

"Mmmm. Not really, we don't learn, don't progress, if we don't get hurt."

"Let me see," his hand moves to take the cloth away. His breath leaves him in a long, slow, exhalation.

She grunts her annoyance, "Let it go, Castle, it's fine, but I really do need to get some ice."

He rinses the cloth with cold water, and places it back on her cheek. "We'll go see Lanie."

"I'll go. Can you head upstairs and grab my jacket and my bag?"

He knows she doesn't want to walk through the bullpen looking like she does. His stomach clenches again.

Ryan and Esposito are going to kill him.

###

She manages to avoid seeing anyone else on her way to the morgue, and she realises suddenly that everyone has probably gone home.

She's close to turning around, just heading home to the icepack in her freezer, when she sees her target in the hall; scrubs gone, purse in hand.

"My god, girl! What happened to you?" her hands reach out to touch her when they are still two steps apart, "I didn't even know you'd picked up a case."

"We haven't. We were in the gym."

"We?" she ushers her back to her office.

"Hmm, Castle and I."

"You were working out with Castle?" she looks up from her examination to stare her in the eye.

"We were sparring. Working on technique."

"Technique? You do know there are safer, and far more pleasurable, techniques that I am sure that man has already perfected."

"I'll remember that for next time."

She laughs, raises her eyebrows, and manages to look disapproving all at once. "Did writer-boy trip over his feet and knee you in the head?"

"Writer-boy got the drop on me and landed a sweet punch right in my eye."

"No!"

"Yes."

"Would it make me a bad friend if I admitted to being sorry I missed that?"

"Probably."

"So writer-boy has skills?"

"Mmm hmm," her mind wanders, remembering.

Gentle fingers prod the bone around her eye checking for fractures. Satisfied she moves to the fridge and gets a gelpack.

"I got distracted," she whispers her confession.

"Distracted?" She suddenly has all her attention.

"He can be very distracting."

"He can be. But his distracting qualities don't usually leave you looking quite this stunned. Do you have a concussion? Or are you finally coming to your senses?"

Her question is met with silence, so she tries again, "What kind of distraction are we talking about here?"

She places the gelpack across her eye and her cheek. It's a shocking kind of relief.

"It was fun, Lanie. We had this fluidly together..." when he stopped holding back, she thinks.

The teasing stops and she places her hand on her friend's arm, "Why do you sound surprised? You guys have been in-sync for forever."

They really have been, and she knows that. He's the best partner she's ever had; they complement each other. Her mind skips again and she's having a hard time staying focused;

The moment of panic when the perp had him against the wall.

Her relief at seeing him walk away unharmed.

Her anger at herself for not maintaining her composure.

Her enjoyment at having him move with her.

Her pleasure at feeling his lips on her skin as he sought to calm them both.

"_Do _I have a concussion?" she asks. She doesn't think she does, but she's suddenly thinking of doing something she really shouldn't. She's not sure if she wants to be talked out of it or not.

"Your eyes seem ok, did you lose consciousness?"

"No."

"Take it easy tonight. Go home with Castle; he can keep an eye on you."

She even has an excuse now; her Dr told her she shouldn't be alone.

###

He hovers outside the door to the morgue. He should go in, he thinks, but he feels like the worst kind of a partner. He doesn't want to interrupt.

They come out, finally. He can't interpret the look he receives. He wants to, it seems important.

"She needs someone with her tonight."

"Of course. She'll stay with me." He doesn't even need to stop and think about it. There's nowhere else she should be.

"You got everything from upstairs?"

"I did."

They are in the parking garage before he realises she shouldn't be driving.

"Let's call a cab," he says, not really considering an alternative. He must be out of practice.

"Can't you drive?" she asks.

So he does.

###

She's on and off with the gelpack; as ordered. She places it in the freezer when it's not on her cheek.

He's pottering around the kitchen; keeping his hands busy and waiting for the leftovers to re-heat.

Her face feels stiff. The rest of her feels pretty good. She's taken some Tylenol and doesn't need anything else. She's actually hoping for wine; she wants the buzz. She wants to erode the gossamer barrier that's holding her back. It's not going to take much. His hand on her back might even be enough.

She stands next to him; hopes to test her theory.

He's maintaining a wide perimeter around her. Keeping watch, but not straying from his post. He wants to be much closer. He thinks it's not a good idea; she seems vulnerable and strong all at the same time, and he's not sure how he feels about that.

The microwave beeps. He starts to dish out dinner.

She's really not sure she can eat. "It's going to hurt to chew."

His face breaks at that. He's having trouble looking her in the eye.

Turns out she doesn't need his hand on her back at all. The expression on his face is more than enough.

She wishes she could smile at him, but she knows something better. She steps into him. Places her hand on his waist, and rests the right side of her face on his chest.

He lets his eyes slide closed, drops a kiss to her hair. He hesitates a moment before bringing one arm around her.

She nudges his arm with her shoulder and tries to force her way into his embrace.

He takes the hint; gently enfolds her in his arms, "I'm so sorry," he says again.

"Shhhh. It's not about that." She doesn't want him to think she's looking for comfort. She's not.

"What's not about that?" He's not sure what she means.

She brings her other hand to his waist, then slides both hands around him; moving slowly. Caressing.

He's even more confused now. The flutter in his chest is unwelcome and inappropriate. He wants to step back, but doesn't want to step _away_ from her.

She kisses the fabric of his shirt and takes a tiny step closer, until her foot is between his.

His body reacts to her closeness, her scent, the way her hands move on him. He loosens his hold and steps back.

She feels him retreat, and knows why. So she steps into him again, and slips her hands under his shirt this time. No chance for confusion.

He growls. The sound hardly escapes his throat but it echoes in his chest. She smiles. It hurts, but she doesn't stop; she kisses his shirt again. She feels it when he gives in to her.

He tightens his arms around her and pulls her in close; sighs into her hair. It's damp from her shower.

She wants to taste his skin. She pauses for a moment; considers. Decides she's come this far and she's not backing out now.

"When are Martha and Alexis due home?"

"Sometime after nine. Why?" Is she not in the mood for company?

"Take me to bed, Castle."

He's not sure what she means. She's kissing him and her hands are on his back. If it were anyone else he'd know exactly what she meant. But this is Beckett.

"Are you tired?" he asks, just to be sure.

"Make love to me." She can't believe how good it feels to say it. She wants to dance around his kitchen. She contents herself with licking her way up his throat to his jaw.

He feels the shudder run through him. He's not even embarrassed by it. Who could blame him?

"Now? Just like that?" he asks. He's hoping she says yes, but really, he thinks she's not making much sense.

She doesn't reply at all, instead she strokes her cheek across his chin and his jaw. Glides her skin over him until his mouth is under hers.

He kisses her so gently it's the barest of sensations. He can hardly believe he's kissing her at all. She runs her tongue over his lips. She takes her time. She's not sure why she doesn't feel the need to rush; maybe it's simply that she knows neither one of them are going anywhere.

She can't get enough of the feel of his back and his shoulders; she wants to run her hands over his chest, his stomach; what she really wants is to have him naked. She decides to start with his chest.

He's almost lost in the sensation of her hands on his skin. It takes him a moment longer to realise that's it probably okay for him to touch her in return. He risks a caress along her side; up from her waist to finish below her breast. She arches into him. He can hardly breathe.

He rains kisses over her; ever aware of the injury he has done her. He ghosts over the side of her nose, nuzzles gently, it's more the promise of a touch than actual contact. When his lips reach her ear he opens his mouth, licks along the curve of her, then kisses her, wet and hot against her throat.

She feels the moan as it leaves her throat. She's not sure why the sound of her own pleasure should excite her further; but it does. She's kept it inside too long.

"Bedroom, Castle." She runs her hands down his stomach to just inside the waistband of his pants to make her point.

He finds her hand and leads her to his bedroom. On the walk over he considers asking if this is wise, but he also thinks it's inevitable, and he wants nothing more than to love her.

He keeps his movements slow, but he doesn't waste any time. He dips under her shirt, spans her stomach and her ribs with his fingers, lifts the fabric up to her neck. He holds it there; he can't just tug it over her head.

She helps him undress her; pulls the neck of her borrowed shirt away from her cheek. She leaves her bra for him to manage on his own, and starts in on his shirt instead. Pants and underwear are not far behind.

She guides him to his bed, turns him around when her knees hit the duvet, and presses him back until he sits. She climbs onto his lap, his erection trapped between their bellies. She loves the feel of him like this; it makes her feel powerful. She rests her head against his shoulder and presses their bodies together.

He wants to touch her everywhere, her skin is so incredibly soft and smooth and his hands glide over her. He runs them along the side of her legs, up over her arse, along her back, to tangle in her hair. Then they start their journey down again. He follows the line of her body right down to her knees and then around to where her calves are folded under her on the bed. He didn't get enough the first time round and so starts again. They take a detour this time; across the top of her thighs, and his thumbs dip lower between her legs.

Her hips rock slowly into him. She spreads her legs wider and it has the fortunate result of lowering her further onto him, and pressing them closer. She grips the base of his head with one hand, holding him tight against her, and sucks and bites her way along the hard muscle that spans from his neck to his shoulder. His mouth is near her ear and she catches every sigh and groan and gasp.

His hands bury between them; one thumb finds her clit and she jerks against him; moaning his name. His other hand presses over her ribs and passed her scars to cup her breast. He caresses her; running the flat of his hand over her curves, and then closing his thumb and index finger over her nipple. He squeezes gently; he's not interested in teasing her body with the mixed signals of pleasure and pain today.

She leans back and presses her chest up to him; her breasts have always been sensitive. She wants him to suck her, run his mouth over her nipples, "Use your tongue," she pleads with him.

Her words send a jolt of pure energy through him, and he lowers his mouth to her chest. He circles both breasts with his tongue, sucks a nipple into his mouth, blows cool air over her and watches her skin pebble and her nipples go hard. The way she is moving into him drives him crazy; it's slow and lazy, but the rhythm draws him in.

She doesn't ever want his mouth to stop, but she can't reach him, and she wants to feel him in her hand. She tangles her fingers in his hair, pulls his head away from her, and then gently presses his shoulder back towards the bed.

He wraps his hands around her lower back and brings her with him when he falls. They shuffle up the bed together, and then her hand is on him; she grips him tightly, and he pumps his hips. A moan escapes. She presses her lips to his and whispers into his mouth, "Let me hear you."

"Oh, god," he doesn't say it because she asks; the simple fact of her wanting to hear his pleasure drives the sound from him. "You're extraordinary," he pants.

"I want you inside me. I'm so wet for you, Castle."

His fingers find her then; he doesn't have a choice, really. The feel of her against his fingers is like nothing else; she opens herself to him, and she's so incredibly wet and warm. He slides over her and her hips move a slow circle against him.

"Inside," she reminds him.

He wants to feel her around him – so badly – but the need to taste her, to run his tongue over her, is even greater. He nudges her up his body. He feels her resistance. "I need to taste you," he tells her.

She stops fighting his hands and goes with him; angles herself over his face. He spreads her, lifts his mouth to her, and circles her with the tip of his tongue.

She growls at him from deep in her throat. She wants more of his tongue on her but she doesn't push down. She holds herself steady and lets him tease her.

"Touch yourself," she commands him. She is so close, and she wants him with her.

He does; he grips himself with one hand and presses his other into the curve of her hip. He licks and sucks at her, pushes his tongue as deep inside her as he can and then glides his way back to her clit, open-mouth kisses her and then sucks her hard.

She lets out a guttural cry and lifts up off him. Eases her body over him and comes to settle chest to chest. She finds him with her hand and tilts her hips just enough to slide him back and forth through her wetness. She presses the length of him tight against her, "I'm so close, Castle. I'm not going to last once you're inside me."

"Come for me," he begs her. He kisses her softly again, and then moves to replace her hand with his own to guide himself inside her.

She can smell herself on his face and she runs her tongue over his lips. They trade kisses.

She can feel him nudging against her, and she wants him all. She presses onto him, feels him slide halfway inside her, and then she lifts up. His hips follow her. She does it again, and he moans.

"Tell me you want me," she says into his ear.

"You know I do. I want all of you," he grips her hips, holds her steady. When she lowers herself again he holds her there, pulling her down, "I need you," he tells her, "Fuck me, Kate."

She crashes into him and cries out, her hips keep moving, and her breath comes hot and heavy against his mouth. She is moaning into him, the sound muffled between their lips.

She tears his orgasm from him. It feels like he's coming apart as he throbs inside her. Her muscles clench at him, and he jerks into her again and again.

His arms wraps around her, holding her tight to his chest. Her head is tucked sideways into the curve of his shoulder.

His hands roam over her back. She straightens her legs and stretches out over him.

Her hand runs across his chest and over his shoulder, with a slight pressure against his bicep she asks him to lower his arm. He does, and she runs her hand along it until their fingers touch and link together. She squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

"I love the way we move together," she says in the breathy silence that follows.

.

* * *

><p>end.<p> 


End file.
